Baristas understand the plight of surgeons. We’re both up before dawn, grinding away. Today, I’m here at 4:45 AM, and it’s on purpose. Even though I’ve worked with the staff inside the BICU a lot over the last five years, they’ve only known me as a resident, one who has fumbled at times and made more errors than I can count. Now, as a fellow, I want to start fresh with them. I want to be revered for all the knowledge I’ve amassed, but since that won’t happen, I’m instead going to ply everyone into loving me with a box of delicious baked goods and a carafe of Boston Beans’ hazelnut brew.
My favorite barista—also the owner of the coffee shop—is manning the cash register. Gina wears a ring on every finger and a vibrant scarf over her knotted dreadlocks. Her smile is infectious and I’ve never, not once, seen her in a bad mood.
“Mornin’ Dr. M. The usual? Black coffee? Or can I talk you into something else? I just perfected this new tea blend I think you’d like.”
“Tea actually does sound good. Can I get it to go?” I pass her the thermos I brought with me. “And I’m also going to order some stuff to take over to the hospital. A carafe of your house blend and a box of pastries, please.”
She winks. “Trying to impress everyone this morning? Word on the street is you don’t need to. Heard you won some fancy award on Friday.”
I groan. Gina knows everyone at BHUMB. Her coffee shop opens early and stays open late, and I know she hears more gossip than the rest of us combined.
“Who told you?”
“Dr. Patel came in with his daughters yesterday. I asked about your graduation and he couldn’t help but spill the tea.”
“Well, it’s not a big deal, really. I don’t even know what I’m going to do with the plaque.”
Answer: keep it by my bed and shine it twice a day, every day.
She nods toward the wall to my right. “Bring it in and I’ll hang it up.”
I know she would.
Boston Beans is the coffee shop everyone around BHUMB frequents. Med students and residents practically live here while they study, and as such, a lot of funny things have been left behind. A couple years back, Gina got fed up with her overflowing bucket containing all our lost shit, so she started hanging the items up on her wall so people could see everything and hopefully start claiming stuff. It started with some random articles of clothing—jackets and a lone sock (why?)—then she added a stethoscope, a forgotten study guide, and a flyer for anatomy tutoring. It morphed from there. A student aced an exam, told Gina about it, and she pinned up a little handwritten note with the name of the student, their exam score, and the date. Now, the wall is covered with other grades, signed class photos, notes thanking Gina for her hospitality and kindness, Christmas cards sent from alumni. I’m up there a few times for aced exams. Noah and Connor are too, though they also grace another spot on the wall. The two of them, along with a few other guys from their graduating class, actually hold the place of honor smack dab in the center.
Back when they were in med school, they shot photos for a parody calendar to help raise money for St. Vincent’s Student Clinic. Each guy has his own month. As far as steamy calendars go, this one is pretty tame. A few of the guys took their shirts off, but Connor and Noah opted to keep their scrubs on. Even still, all the guys hammed it up for the camera, and though it was supposed to just be a fun way to raise money for a good cause, the calendar became a viral sensation after someone posted it online. A few news stations even ran stories about the “Hot Docs” in Boston. The calendars sold out in two days and they had to order another print run. St. Vincent’s Clinic had more money than they knew what to do with that year.
Even though it’s a decade old, Gina still has the calendar up on her lost and found wall. It’s signed by each of the guys, and right now, even though it’s early July, the calendar is open to February—Connor’s month.
His photo is a close-up of just his face and the top of his chest. He’s looking straight into the camera with his sharp blue eyes, unsmiling, though he’s not exactly frowning either. He’s smoldering. It was meant as a joke, I’m sure, but the result has obviously set hearts (and panties) aflame.
Below his image, on the squares dedicated to each day of the month, people have jotted notes. The page is littered with phone numbers and hearts. YOU’RE HOT and CALL ME and IS THIS GUY REAL are barely legible now that so many messages crowd the page.
I’m sure Connor’s embarrassed by it, just like Noah was. The whole reason the calendar is pinned on Connor’s month is because it used to be pinned on Noah’s. One day, a few years back, he came in here and swapped it out. Connor swapped it back. Noah retaliated, and the battle continued from there. I think, eventually, Gina told them to stop messing with her calendar.
“It’s a collector’s item!” she teased.
Connor, being the gentleman he is, left it alone after that, even though it meant his face was the one left up on the wall for all of eternity.
Of course, I have a copy too. It was for charity! Right after I ripped out Noah’s picture and burned it, I stashed the calendar in my closet. To my credit, I’ve only pulled it out once in a blue moon.
I wonder if the roles were reversed, if my photo were in a calendar, would Connor do the same? Would he buy it and keep it stowed away like buried treasure? Up until a few days ago, I would have thought the answer was a firm no.
Now…I’m not so sure.
Chapter Five
Natalie
One thing I learned early on in medical school was to fake it till you make it. Not like fake it as a doctor—that’s illegal and I don’t recommend it—but I do recommend faking that you’re confident in your ability to be a doctor until you actually are confident.
My very first rotation as a resident was in this very burn unit. I woke up, brushed my teeth, and carefully combed my hair back into a ponytail. I practiced introducing myself as Dr. Martin in front of my bathroom mirror while affecting a stern yet approachable tone right up until it was time to leave so I could arrive at the hospital ridiculously early. Funny thing is, I didn’t even make it into the hospital before my job began. If there’s an emergency and you’re the resident on call, you’re the first person they call. Day one, hour one, I got a call from an EMT shooting me rapid-fire information about a patient at a scene then asking me what steps I’d like to take. What medications and what amounts. What type of salve to apply to the burns during transport to the hospital. Data swirled in my head—test-prep questions, fake scenarios. If Johnny has second degree burns covering 5% of his body, what time will the train arrive at the station? Suddenly, this was real life. A real child was depending on me. I froze, utterly terrified of even having to prescribe someone Tylenol, let alone handle a situation like this.
I learned quickly, though. The EMT shouted at me (rude, sure, but necessary) and I snapped out of my insecurity, going with my gut.
My gut was right, but only because I’d spent years teaching it to be right.
Today, it’s time to put that knowledge into action again.
The BICU is bustling with activity when I arrive. This week, with the start of the academic year, we have new medical and PA students rotating through plus a shiny new crop of residents thinking they’re hot shit. They’re all hovering in a loose group, twiddling their thumbs, looking for someone to lead them.